Our Healing Wings
by Sara Darkotter
Summary: A veela-tale with more than just that simple love-story. The war is only two years gone, after all, and Narcissa is asking the Aurors to find her son and bring him home. Hermione is searching, and finds more than just the famous drunk she's looking for. These tangled stories have a way of attracting attention like nothing else.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, this is what happens when I talk with reviewers. I get the idea for other stories. So the idea for me to write a veela-fic goes to abbily.1428, who, with Couture Girl, is doing a range of beta-ing for it. A chapter will always get passed by one of them before posting. And because I'm an impatient bastard who's going to be forced through several hours of swimming tomorrow morning, I am posting this now and will edit it when Abbily gets back to me because Cee looked it over. So there. /Childish stomping

This story may become M later on, but not because of lemons, because I don't write those. (Sorry, citrus-lovers in the audience)

I will only disclaim once, as they take up space: I do not own Harry Potter, this is a work of fan-created fiction made and distributed for free. It is not in any way endorsed, associated with, or other such fancy terms by J.K. Rowling. I am, as the term goes, playing with her toys.

* * *

Draco had been vaguely aware for years that there was something different about his family.

He was not talking about the war. No, what he was talking about was the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year when young, Malfoy-blonde women with good figure had filed onto the field. Draco noted that they were pretty nice-looking, but couldn't quite reconcile it with the murmurs around expounding the women like they were the most beautiful things on earth. Yes, they looked flawless from a distance, but up close, surely they had a few scars or the youngest among them might have acne somewhere.

Then they set about dancing, which Draco watched with a bored expression, trying not to put his hand in his chin or slouch.

"The one on the end is a few seconds behind," his father pointed out. The other men around, all famous in one way or another, and most unknown to Draco, had snarled at him. To his credit, Father never twitched once, as if he expected it.

Then Draco looked up from pinpointing the girl fallen out of step and realized half the audience was trying to dive onto the field.

That was how Draco discovered his veela immunity.

That day was also how he discovered sex, when after the match he went looking for a toilet and found a young guard and a veela enthusiastically going at it in the entryway to the loo. That was not to say that Draco hadn't heard of sex before that-babies had to come from somewhere, and there had been the quiet and highly embarrassing conversation from his mother in the summer before third year, but before that sex had been something he hadn't quite figured out and wasn't sure he'd wanted to.

The Quiddich Cup had been a lot of firsts for Draco. His first taste of the war, by all accounts, when tents had been burned and muggles tormented. The taste of compassion, even if it wasn't meant to be so, when he told Scarhead and Weasel to get Granger out of there-it had been more of a want for a chase, like a dog letting a rabbit get a few feet ahead before running it down. A bitter tang, of unadulterated, collective fear.

The year had been even more firsts, things and people and events...

Draco shifted on his bed, staring at the ceiling with squinting eyes. He was hungover, as was common for him nowadays, but that wasn't what bothered him.

He was _sober._ Fuck, he hated when he was sober. Memories, like right now, came to attention, or worse-they sprang to life as he slept and twisted themselves into nightmares. That was what had woken him, an attempt to not scream and announce to anyone within distance that all was not right.

He scrabbled around in the dark, keeping his mind firmly focused on the rather gentle memories of fourth year as he searched for a bottle of alcohol-firewhiskey, brandy, or whatever that odd mix he had been drinking last night was. It had been an interesting party, and an overzealous sex-drive had meant that more-drunk-than-usual Draco had shagged at least two girls before leaving with a third. Draco wasn't sure why wizards and witches still invited him to social events, he hadn't been sober in three months anyway so it had been impossible to mull over. Right at this painful moment, he suspected humiliation that bounced right off because he _couldn't stop grinning_. _Ever._

Draco groaned, wanting to stand up but knowing he would puke if he did, and feeling thoroughly humiliated for himself from the last few months of his life. He wondered if he was in the newspaper...

Finally managing the task of finding a bottle in a sea of them, Draco raised it, flicked it slightly to hear the swish from the liquid inside and raised it to his lips.

It burned as it went down, the taste of phoenix-vodka thick on his tongue. Firewhiskey, phoenix-vodka, there was magical (And much more potent) versions of many muggle alcohols. It was warm, and tasted unpleasant because of it, but it went down easy and did its job. As he slowly swallowed down the half-empty bottle, the memories in his head began to fade, hiding in the shadows of his throbbing skull, away from where he could see them.

It was that little time before dawn when everything seemed at its darkest-the stars were gone, but the sun had yet to come up. Nightshifts were home and day-workers had yet to leave. Streetlights fading out one by one. Draco managed to heave himself out of bed to the window, watching.

The bedroom of his flat faced north, the better to keep wretched sunlight away, so the sunrise was lost to him, but the view of the streets, dark, and the city, slowly being touched by the creeping gold, was not. He stared bleakly for a few moments before pulling the curtains on the window, kicking a bottle aside as he made his way to his bed again. The sheets still smelled just a little feminine, she had left her address on the bedside table.

He picked it up, wondering what the hell made her think that he would owl anyone. If he was so intent on getting someone, why was he consistently drunk, why was his flat a wreck, why was he shagging random girls at a party?

The paper burned between his fingertips. He sipped the last of the phoenix-vodka, watching it disappear in a spiral of smoke and ashes.

He rolled over and buried his head under the pillows. He wasn't going to go to work today. His mother could do it. She liked doing it. (He thought so, anyway. He hadn't seen her in a while) It kept her busy.

He shamed his mother enough by drinking anyway. Why make it worse by doing it in front of her?

Falling into a drunken stupor, a strange ache in his back prodded lightly at his attention. He ignored it and passed out.

. . .

Malfoy was in the news again, his small column in the back. Hermione, who always read the _Prophet_ front to back, tapped her nails on the wood of her table as she read it. Then stopped herself, before the noise echoed. One of her war-vices: paranoia. She was terrified that someone with cruel intent would hear or see her and would attack.

Now holding both her hands in her lap, carefully holding her wand between her fingers, she kept reading.

It was her laugh of the week, usually, though sometimes it was her laugh for a few days (He might pull some stunts several days in a row), to read this column. Not because she found Malfoy particularly amusing-anyone drinking themselves into oblivion was far from funny-but because of the writer. In the same sentence that Vane called him a horrendous drunk, she called him charismatic, handsome, and on this fine occasion, nicknamed him "veela-boy."

The image that it conjured, with the only image she had of a full veela (The dancing mascots of the Quidditch World Cup of '94), melted together. Malfoy, in the skimpy dancer's costume, his long hair grown to his waist.

She held back giggles to look all around her tiny kitchenette before erupting into laughter, while the image inside her head snarled, leathery wings unfolding from his back and skin pulling back from his nails to turn them into talons, face becoming a bird head.

It was still funny.

She rocked with laughter, head thrown back with it, for several minutes, struggling to catch her breath. When she finally calmed down, she tore the article out and then washed her coffee cup, setting it back in its cupboard. Her kitchen was truly tiny, there wasn't room for a drying rack on her counter, but Hermione was devoting herself to research, so a large place to live was not a priority.

She researched many things. She worked in the auror department in the backgrounds, piecing clues together and digging up facts for the aurors in the field. She worked in the Magical Research Department. If she could get it, she worked on it, developed cures and potions and collected facts and tested things, whatever she could. Hermione liked to work and she threw herself into it. Sometimes she didn't even come home for days-Crooks lived with Harry and Ginny now because of that, sadly. She'd given her precious cat to them since there was always someone home, if only for ten minutes. She visited sometimes.

Stuffing the article in her pocket and brushing off her women's trousers (Skirts were not practical for her department, but everyone was expected to dress professionally at the Ministry), Hermione held her wand at auror rest-position (Handle in one hand, end in the other, arms straight) and pivoted on her heel, apparating.

With a quiet pop, Hermione was standing on the tile of the Ministry entrance. As always, she was braced for the sight of anyone who shouldn't be there, eyes scanning the crowd before she put her wand in her pocket. She waved to familiar faces on her way to the elevator (There was Harry, jittery over Ginny! And Ron, with his sad smile and half-empty eyes... Scamander, scowling slightly today. Had something happened with Luna?) and waited impatiently for the golden-caged elevator.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She whirled around, grabbing and twisting the wrist attached to it every so slightly.

She had the sense to look apologetic as she let go of Kingsley. "I'm so very sorry, Minister Shacklebolt, I need to talk to my therapist again, I know."

The tall man gave her an understanding look, gently patting her shoulder. "Yes, I would," he said, deep voice quiet. "The Auror Department requires you today. Would you be willing to come by later? I know you are busy."

"I have a few minutes before I need to get up there, I can come now. Is it urgent?"

"Urgent would depend upon the perspective," he intoned. The elevator, with a rattling clang, opened its doors. Wizards and witches packed in, many faces grumpy and sleep-deprived, others the obvious morning people getting shot looks of distaste. Hermione packed herself into a corner, swallowing air so she wouldn't panic. An enclosed space, no room to raise her wand, anything could happen...

Kingsley practically yanked her off at the stop, and she took a moment to regain her composure as she always did, brushing her clothes, checking her wand, a whispered _finite incantum._ When she was done, he gave her a nod and walked straight into his office. Hermione looked around twice before shutting the door with a click.

"We have a job for you, a slightly odd case, one which, while we are aware you don't like field work, we think would quickly be solved through your skills."

Hermione leaned forward slightly, almost glancing at the sparse desk to see if there was a sign of the notes. She wanted to get started, she didn't care if it was counting vampires of Bulgaria!

"You need to find Draco Malfoy."

A smile twitched at Hermione's lips. This had to be a joke. There was no way-a giggle slipped through. "Have you tried checking the newspaper, Minister Shacklebolt?"

He managed a slight smile. "I shall be more specific, then. His mother wishes to know where his current residence is, why she cannot contact him, and wishes our helping in bringing him home."

"Why hasn't she tried our help before now? He's been in that tacky column for over a year."

Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The secretary until now has been dismissing her, it took an extensive bribe, and she will be paying us two million galleons for our help. We are assuming that if she is unable to do this herself, it is a difficult task."

Hermione nodded slightly, sitting back in her chair.

"I am aware that you and Malfoy do not share a pleasant history, but you are, among our best aurors, the one best at setting aside differences."

"The two mill-"

"Can finish the rebuilding of Hogwarts, many wizarding communities that have been cleaning up sluggishly until now, and can help out in many other ways."

Hermione nodded. Already two years since the war, but things were so far from normal, with a half-dead economy, and broken souls everywhere, still sweeping out for Death Eaters running and attempting to capture them. Malfoy had spent six months in Azkaban with his father. Malfoy younger had been released. Malfoy senior was still in there. His stay wasn't over for another year.

"Will you do this, Miss Granger?"

She sighed. "Yes, sir."

He reached into his desk and handed her a file.

* * *

This will be more than just a Veela!Draco fic. I never manage simple, straight-forward plots. They bore me. This will be a touch complicated, and while the main characters will be Draco and Hermione, other characters will be able to stand up, add their strands of plot, and eventually we will reach some puppies-and-rainbows happy ending. Till then, you can entertain yourself scanning for foreshadowing :P


	2. Chapter 2

YES, a second chapter! Abbily caught many mistakes this chapter, a sign I should probably stop typing late at night. I also noticed that there are eleven people following, and only two of you reviewed. I like talking to the people reading, you know, even a simple "Good story, update soon!" (Even though I prefer something a little longer...) is nice, it means I can engage in conversation with you, and possibly figure out what people do and don't like.

It also gives me something to do when I get writers block. See? You guys can prevent writers block!

Reading also gets you a shirtless Draco, or Theodore, or whichever male character you like most.

* * *

Draco woke up on an unfamiliar floor in pain. His back and fingers were on fire, his bones ached, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. This was unusual-not the cotton bit, but the rest of the pain. He struggled a moment as he blinked the blurs from his vision and realized that it was a tile floor, in an unfamiliar bathroom, and his pants were missing.

No, wait, there they were, being put on by a struggling, obviously drunk bird. She looked down at the material, swaying, and then finally realized her mistake when she saw his eyes on her, releasing them where they drooped around her thighs. She attempted to pull them off but fell ungracefully, body smacking on the floor. She giggled loudly, wiggling her rather shapely legs wildly in an attempt to get rid of the pair of jeans. Draco managed to reach out and yank them off, getting them on with only a little fuss and minimum pain. He grinned at her, stretching like a cat and listening to his spine line up accordingly, before sitting up.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten here, and there was an amazement he could still remember his name started with a D, so Draco managed an ungainly stumble to his feet and shoved his way out of the bathroom.

It was four in the morning, by the barely visible clock, and this party was still going on. Snatching a glass of what looked like punch and smelled like firewhiskey, he downed it, leaning against a table with a good-natured grin still on his face. The pulsing lights hurt the back of his eyes, and the music was deafening him, and it was so crowded and warm, but the day felt good. Draco stripped his shirt off, laying it over his shoulder and selecting a second glass of the punch, drinking this one slowly.

A girl with large dark eyes and skin like tea with a splash of milk pushed through the crowd to him, a quill in her hair and a notebook in her hand. He softened his grin so it looked welcoming. "Hello, love, what can I do for you?"

Calling people 'love' was just so easy...

She giggled, standing extremely close to him, the warmth between their bodies tingling. "My-My name is Romilda Vane! I'm a reporter! Can I ask you some questions?" she said loudly, trying to be heard over the music. She giggled again, and pressed her small chest against his. He leaned forward, teeth gently nibbling at her ear, "Ask away, Romilda."

Another stream of giggles. He reached for a new glass as a girl across the crowd began making her way over.

Alcohol began to blur things, softening the edges until he was struggling to string together the words on her lips-her oh-so soft-looking lips...

"So, for-" she giggled again as he adjusted his hold on her. At some point, they'd sat down and he'd balanced her on his lap. She looked happily euphoric to be there. "I-This one is off the record, by the way-What, exactly, has led to your drinking habits?"

Draco stared at her a moment, thinking, the words stringing up too quickly and he found he didn't like the question. "It's personal," he said hoarsely.

"Aw, just a small hint? Maybe I could help-" she was drawing designs on his chest, fingertip tracing imaginary outlines as it slowly slipped south.

"You? A little airhead reporter?" he said scathingly, and abruptly stood up on surprisingly steady feet. She fell to the ground, floating inkwell smashing on the smooth linoleum. Draco stepped over her, ignoring her hurt expression, shoving his way through the crowd on the dance floor. He was through the door before he knew it, cool spring air washing over his sweat-soaked skin, but it reminded him of the clammy cold of dementors-

He quickly pulled his mind together, away from those memories, and then tore along the alleyway, running. This place was called Wicked, it wasn't all that far from a public floo-and-disapparation spot... He didn't have his wand, he hadn't seen that in months, but the ambient magic would probably be enough...

Standing by the little pretend telephone booth on a dark streetcorner, he stepped inside, gathered the magic around him and turned on his heel. He landed in the little park not far from his flat, looked up at the moon overhead and then looked east, or maybe it was south, his hangover making a reappearance with a starving vengeance.

He bent over and puked at the roots of the tree spreading branches overhead, mostly alcohol and bile that burned on the way up. He heaved once, twice, and again his throat seared and vomit splattered over the ground. With shaky hands, he wiped his mouth on the grey shirt still draped over his shoulder, looking around before headed down the empty sidewalk towards his flat, just another young man after a party.

But oh, Merlin, did he need his firewhiskey. Memories of the dementors were pushing at his boundaries.

. . .

Hermione had spent three days analyzing the contents of the file in her spare time. It contained a paper copy of the interview with Narcissa, an audio copy, her last communication with her son (A drunken, rambling letter explaining that he was moving from the place she had got him, nothing personal but he wasn't burdening her like this, and that maybe he might talk to her again soon-her wrists ached just looking at the length and the perfect cursive), and a blank check for expenses that had to be personally activated by Narcissa.

She didn't usually spend this much time poring over a file, but she found she was delaying. She could set aside differences, but she refused to forget them.

But she had to admit-Narcissa sounded extremely anxious on the audio copy. Somehow, she had never reconciled the Malfoys as the worried or compassionate types, not even towards each other.

Hermione was curled up around a book, (_Influential Wizards and Witches of our Age, _Mildred Bats, 1973 printing) trying to collect background information on the Malfoy family. She was taking notes, and occasionally would glance up, an eye scanning all the entrances, looking for a sign of someone unwelcome. When, this time, she noticed light trying to struggle through her curtains, she turned her wandering gaze to a clock. It was eight in the morning. She should have been at work two hours ago, but her coworkers (Perhaps assistants would be a better term) had all her notes on the disease sweeping through those centaur herds and they could experiment with cures as well as she could. Maybe Kingsley would take this as a sign that she was working hard on this little case. How hard could it be to find one wizard already in the news anyway?

She groaned, realizing that was a dooming thought. Just by thinging those words, she had guaranteed this would probably be her most difficult case of the year. She slammed the book shut, looking around warily at the sound, and waved her wand to start a pot of coffee.

When a scoop of pre-ground coffee dumped itself in the little machine, she gave it a glowering look and flicked her wand again. A second scoop was added, as water poured itself in and then the machine began to work, the rough sound of water condensing and dripping into the coffee grounds filling the air. Hermione also put the kettle on with another little twist of her wrist. Tea and coffee. Some would call blasphemy from both sides, but Hermione loved both beverages equally; both contained caffeine and were therefore welcome at this tiring hour. She needed to stop staying up all night like this, she was not a girl at school where she could find the time to catch up on lost rest anymore.

Drawing a line below her notes, she tapped the quill gently against her jaw, thinking. Where to start... She needed information on Draco, specifically, and through much less biased eyes than those of his mother.

Friends of Draco Malfoy, hmm... She began scratching names. Goyle was still in Azkaban, and not particularly helpful in any case. Parkinson, old girlfriend, definitely. Who else... Blaise Zabini, she'd seen him around Malfoy several times in sixth year. Theodore Nott-maybe, but he'd only gotten out last year, and rumors said he wasn't taking it well. But still a lead.

She tried hard to think of others Malfoy might have graced with his once illustrious presence, but the more she thought, the more she came to the conclusion that she needed coffee, or that Malfoy had been a bit of a loner. Quite probably both, but she was going to down a good dose of caffeine and check her flat's wards before deciding.

Heaving herself off her couch, she tossed a throw pillow back onto the comfortable furniture, shuffling to the coffee pot and draining its entire contents into a large mug. She took an appreciative sniff of the bitter fluid before she began sipping on it, waving her wand in a series of patterns. They stayed blue and the pattern completed, so she was safe. A gesture of her first finger had the kettle pouring into a second mug for her tea. She counted off the alloted minutes and seconds that the bag steeped before pulling it out and dumping it in the trash.

Dear Merlin, she was obsessing over her drinks again. Was she going to check the tea for poison this time? She'd done that to the coffee she had earlier...

She sighed, picking up the tea mug and placing it on the little cabinet next to her couch, clutching the coffee in her hands. Once this case was closed, she promised herself an appointment with her therapist, and this time she wouldn't forget, she would go, talk, feel better for a few days and manage more than three hours of sleep.

Her adrenaline eased away, leaving an ache in her bones. She felt infinitely tired today, like she could nap for days. She was in no state to do research without a few Sleep-Less potions, and that meant going into work for those, then signing for them, and that meant people she was friends with that she was going to snap at when they told her she had reached her monthly quota with a worried look on their faces... Sleep-Less could be addictive, she knew, like Dreamless Sleep could, but she didn't have an addiction. She'd know. She knew all the symptoms.

She quickly gulped down the coffee, feeling it burn her throat and grimacing. Maybe she'd start with talking with one of the three snakes on the parchment. No way in Merlin's name would she go near Nott without a day to prepare herself, Zabini was appointment only, but Parkinson married happily last year; surely she wouldn't mind a visitor... Hermione began carefully sipping her tea, planning her Floo message. Owl wouldn't arrive any time today.

When the coffee began working its way through her bloodstream and she felt more awake, she set down the tea. The world may have changed, but Parkinson was still a pureblood, and that meant good manners and dress no matter the occasion for visiting. She would rather avoid spiteful comments for wearing trainers when flats or heels would have been more appropriate.

She found a skirt, wrinkled from a stay on the floor but easily fixed with an ironing charm, tucked in her blouse and pinned her Auror badge to its pocket, wand hanging from her side in plain sight and easily reachable. Then she spent several moments painfully raking a brush through her hair and realizing she hadn't done this menial task in ages, finding several knots and tangles with each jerk through her bushy hair.

When she had finally managed the task of getting it into a loose bun, the Ministry note she had sent to Harry via Floo had returned. She now had Parkinson's address. Now to just politely ask for an invitation...

When she stuck her head into the fireplace, a man's face came into view. She quickly marked his appearance. Young, handsome, dark hair cut short, amber eyes-unusual but pretty. He spoke in French first, and while Hermione understood it almost perfectly, this was not a casual visit.

"Monsiuer Martin, I am Auror Granger and I require a visit with your wife."

His hackles were up instantly, she saw in the way his shoulders stiffened under the suit he wore.

"What has she done?" he hissed, teeth clenched.

"She has done nothing, she is not under investigation," Hermione reassured him. He smoothed out instantly.

"Then you should have no need to talk to her," he said pleasantly. "Good-"

"I am on a missing person's case, and as she was a friend of the person in question, her help would be invaluable."

"My wife is sick today and is no position to receive guests."

Hermione resisted the urge to growl. She was not going to come back tomorrow and deal with this prick a second time, she didn't care how much she might upset Parkinson. "We are on a tight schedule. Unless she is dying, I will speak to her, the person's family has reason to believe this is life-or-death. If you don't let me in, I will get a warrant."

Not a lie-Narcissa had come off that way, though she had voiced no concern towards her son being in danger, tone said a lot of things. She wished she could have been there to study body language, but one could only hope for so much.

Martin paled slightly, but nodded tightly. "Only an hour," he said, French accent coming back thick. Native-born, possibly, but well-trained in English. "I won't have you upsetting her."

"I understand. I will arrive in ten minutes, pleasantries are not required for this visit." She withdrew her head, watching the clock while she checked her wand again. She gave them a full thirteen minutes and then stepped into the floo.

International floor travel was a rough-and-tumble experience, but quite fun as long as one kept their elbows in. She spun past so many places, glimpses into others lives, gently scraping against walls, and a cool woman's voice instructed as she slowed, _"Transferring countries, please remove your wand. Thank you. Turbulence is expected."_

There was a jerk in her stomach, and then she flew by fireplaces into the lives of people she would quite probably never know. She closed her eyes until her feet hit a fireplace empty but of one dead log. She very carefully stepped over it and onto a hearth of old and worn stone, very carefully cleaning herself with a wave of her wand. Only then did she step onto the rug.

It was a large, well-lit, and expensive room. She told herself not to name the prices or countries of anything around her, or how many children the expense could feed.

"Granger."

She turned to look a woman. She almost wouldn't recognize Parkinson, she had never gotten over her stay. Her black hair had been grown long, her shoulders were straight but held no pride, and her eyes gleamed with a touch of pain, emptiness. Hermione had once called her a pug. That was no more true than Hermione was a troll. While Parkinson's nose was a little scrunched, it now looked almost endearing.

"Park-Sorry, Martin."

She nodded to her. "The sitting room is this way. I hope your travel was not difficult."

Hermione shook her head slightly. "It was fine. How are you?"

"Best I can be."

Mister-or perhaps Master would be the more appropriate term-Martin was waiting in the doorway. "You left your wand in the bedroom, dearest." He gave Hermione a smile strained at the edges. "She is rather forgetful, I'm afraid. And getting a little pudgy, best cut the late-night snacks, Pansy!" He laughed loudly. "I'm only kidding. I will see you soon. Don't get lost on your way to the sitting room." He kissed her cheek, gently rubbing her arm, and walked away.

Hermione was led down a hallway in silence. Following Parkinson (She couldn't think of her by any other name), Master Martin's comments drew her thoughts. She never remembered Parkinson as forgetful, but perhaps Azkaban had done that to her, and she'd never known her particularly well.

But pudgy? Unless she was wearing a corset under that dress, or something of the like, Pansy was not pudgy.

Hermione frowned.

"He makes distasteful comments sometimes, especially when they're not true. It's just the way he is," Parkinson held the door to a room open. Hermione stepped in, looked around at the finery, and pulled out her wand, testing for charms. Unless spells to keep the doilies clean were dangerous, there was nothing. She gave Parkinson a wary smile, perching on a chair. She barely batted an eye.

"You interrupted my morning, Granger, and you look tired, so I think it would be best if we skipped anything resembling chatter and get to the point of your visit."

Hermione immediately pulled her recording devices from a small handbag. Undetectable Extension Charms were the love of her working life.

"You knew Draco Malfoy, that's why I'm here. While he may be in the papers, his mother and the Auror department both have found ourselves in the position of not knowing his place of residence and his mother has been unable to contact him in seven months."

"He's in the papers? I'm sorry, I don't read the _Prophet_ anymore. It holds nothing of interest to me." She set a small plate of tiny sandwiches on the low table between them.

"He has a small column in the back by Romilda Vane, his apparent stalker and admirer. He's been an almost constant drunk for about a year now, and recent photos provide ample evidence he's only a few bottles a day extra away from alcohol poisoning. She wants to bring him home before she loses the only family she has left. We all know her husband won't come out of Azkaban in any good state."

Parkinson had a well-disguised flinch, nodding. "But that doesn't explain why you came to me, Granger. I haven't left my home since I married. Wouldn't your lovely department know that?"

"You knew Draco. I need to find out as much about him from people who really knew him, weren't blinded by the emotions of a mother, or an enemy's disgust. Peers, like you."

Parkinson primly crossed one ankle in front of the other, appearing to think about something a moment. "Draco was always a bit dramatic. If emotions came into play, he'd blow the event up or overact something-like third year with that hippogriff. He was used to everything he does being so big. But he was also an organized mind, I asked him once how he remembered all he did, he said he filed things, like they were paper, labeled them, or boxed things into little cordoned areas of his mind so he wouldn't think them.

"He's prone to too much pride at all the bad times. So close to the Dark Lord, there's no telling what nightmares he saw, you'd have to drill through his thick head to find out."

She said with just a little bitterness on the edge of her tongue, almost not there.

"He was brilliant. He didn't need to read books all the time to learn things," Hermione ignored the obvious jab, "he could just know how magic was supposed to know, and the way his head worked made him a master at potions."

Hermione gave a polite cough. Parkinson handed her a cough drop. "Of course, that was what I saw. Maybe he was different to others."

She blinked, looking over the cough drop before putting it in her pocket. Looking around the room, she tried to think of other questions she could ask, to get out more information about Malfoy.

"Was he always fond of drinking?"

"He hated it. He got his hangovers within a few hours, usually, instead of the morning after. Takes out all the fun."

Hermione nodded slightly. Picking up one of the miniature sandwiches, she turned it around in her hands, inspecting it as she disassembled it.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, it's not poisoned!" Parkinson snapped, then she straightened her shoulders. "I apologize, that was rude of me." When Hermione stared at her a moment, she huffed. "Surprised I'm civil? I am capable of manners, and I've learned my lesson. Eat the sandwich you just took apart."

Hermione carefully ate it in two bites, staring at her hand. Then she quickly packed up her recording material, not looking at Parkinson till the end. "Thank you for your cooperation, the Auror department thanks you even though you probably don't want that. Have a pleasant day," she said in a monotone. She turned around, opening the door but banged against a side-table. A crash as a delicate crystal vase smashed on the floor.

"Oh Merlin, I'm so sorry! I wasn't-I'm so-Why don't you use your wand?" Hermione, already pulling hers out, paused as Parkinson began picking up the pieces by hand. "Here." With a tap, the vase repaired, good as new, and shaky hands set it back on its spot, a relieved expression slipping through for a moment.

"I think it's time you leave. This way." Face blank, Parkinson swept up the hallway, dress barely whispering across the carpet, quickstepping. Hermione followed her, stumbling into the room she had entered from and stepping onto the hearth, flooing away.

* * *

*cue people hating on Vane and some odd review trashing Pansy*


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so this chapter is shorter, but it's a heavier chapter.

Also, hello to all the reviewers! Some of you guys came through!

Disclaimer: Scarborough Fair is a song in the public domain, and therefore not subject to copyright.

* * *

Draco had only managed a few hours buzz before he ran out. He looked at the bottle, eyes wide, hands shaking, searching for a drop of his liquid savior. Nothing. He dropped the bottle, listened to it thump loudly against the carpet with a musical ringing before he lay back. His head thudded painfully against the floor, but he couldn't care less, watching the ceiling. Shadows lay across it, dark shapes, the dementors coming for him with their rasping skeleton claws, memories of dead bodies staring at-

He jolted up, eyes flying open, he was still lying on the carpet in the living room but the day had passed. He was facing the wall of windows and sunset was creeping close, light warming his face. His ever-loyal and rarely seen house-elf (who no longer even attempted to clean up after Draco) had put a blanket over him and replaced a few empty bottles for full ones. He fumbled with the first one, desperate movements as he yanked it open, managing a few swallows of firewhiskey before it dropped from his hand, clattering on the floor. Firewhiskey splashed across the carpet. Draco watched the puddles, dark stains on a dark carpet as he stood on shaky feet. He couldn't even hold the bottle. He was weak, he hated being weak, it made him so vulnerable, the Dark Lord coul-

Draco shook his head wildly and then nearly fell over. Voldemort was gone, he wasn't his lord anymore, he wasn't waiting around a corner for a weak moment to kill him. Now his only problem would ever be vigilantes wanting revenge, and he was sure that they would feel sated enough on his humiliating drunken adventures. But still... He looked down at his wrist, staring at it. The black mark had long faded to a grey, but still visible, scars scratched down the snake and skull to damage the tattoo marring his skin.

Azkaban made you do things, often to yourself. A time of insanity unmeasured convinced him that the mark was the reason he was there, so eventually he tried to get rid of it, using a shard of the small, filthy glass he had to drink from.

He couldn't really remember what it had felt like when he'd cut into himself, but he remembered crystal-clear his blood. It had been warm, unlike everything else around, he'd turned his fingers and neck red trying to bring that warmth closer, rocking on his heels as he laughed and shrieked.

Another reason to drink. If he was sober, who was to say that sanity came with it?

He carefully sat in an armchair, legs thrown over an armrest, staring out the window-wall. Shaky hands clasped over a knee, he watched the horizon, willing the sun to sink beyond it. Draco had no love of light, he didn't want that illuminating monster to shove him in front of a mirror, he didn't want to see what he was. He knew he was irrational, but there was no one here to judge his thoughts.

Of course, Draco had no love of darkness either, but he could hide in it from others, face the mirror but see nothing but ink black.

That frail feeling persisted in every bone in his body, the silence sinking into him like weights on his skeleton. It was crushing his chest, it was like he couldn't breathe. He struggled a moment before closing his eyes, remembering-heartbeats. He listened to the sound of his heart, beating double-time between his ribs, blood rushing in his ears, and slowly began to calm. He was alive, the silence would go away, people below would create noise as they went around their meaningless muggle lives.

But the silence would still be there when he opened his eyes, sharpening his fears with loneliness and emptiness. The sound of a heartbeat didn't extend beyond the chest.

Maybe he could sing? Draco had been forced through the embarrassing ordeal of learning to sing at a young age by his mother, insisting it was good for his lungs, diaphragm, speech, spell-casting, and many other elements that he hadn't been listening to because he'd been mourning his oh-so-manly six-year-old pride.

He didn't remember most of the songs, but he did remember the one that had gotten the instructor fired. It had been a muggle song, and therefore too dirty for his tongue, so he'd forgotten about it. But it had a wonderful slow pace and rises and falls, and was a perfect song for filling corners with sound.

It wasn't like there was anyone here to listen, anyway.

"_Are you going to Scarborough Fair... Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme..."_

_. . ._

Hermione had spent all day analyzing Parkinson's words, the memory replaying constantly in a pensieve, while she worked herself to exhaustion and beyond searching for hidden meanings or double-edged words. She hated talking with Slytherins, couldn't they be straightforward for once in thei-

She had been up far too late, she decided, realizing that the end of her sentence counted as extremely racist. Looking around, she reached into the drawer in the cabinet besides the couch, looking at the little potions vials there. Sleep-Less, they were all labeled, with warnings and measurements for intake. Most of them were empty, which she vanished. Picking up one partially full, she looked at the dosage listed on the side (One small spoonful) and ignored it, swallowing a large mouthful.

She was not addicted, dammit! She had too much work to do right now, and a small spoonful wouldn't cut it! Once her workload dropped, she'd stop taking it, and she'd get her sleep schedule back.

Within moments, she felt awake, ready to face the night, without risk of dropping off and into some nightmare about Bellatrix. Why hadn't she remembered the vial this morning? It would have been so nice. She'd probably temporarily blocked the memory to prevent addiction. But she wasn't addicted, she would swear to Merlin.

She finished up looking over the interview with Parkinson, writing up quick notes and summarizing what she thought, then remembered she'd have to put in that appointment with Zabini if she wanted to talk with him any time in the next few months, so she quickly flooed the secretary of his office. A short, and oddly unembarrassing conversation ensued, and she found herself booked for next week in a small time-slot that would be otherwise filled with nothing for its shortness. She doubted she would need that much time anyway.

Now that the case had been brought to date, she continued her regular work. Those centaur herds wouldn't heal on their own, after all. Picking up the work where she had left off, she pulled her home potion kit down from its storage, beginning to look through samples and photos of the ill creatures, many wracked with fevers. Sores on their back and lags, scrapings from them were currently being cultured, and then there was the hooves, becoming so fragile and cracking and disintegrating in the worst or the vulnerable, like the foal cases. If they lived, she had to wonder if those survivors would ever walk again.

Certain samples of mane and hooves were set aside, ready to be put into a potion, something to sort through and search for root causes. She sorted through her supplies, set up a burner with bluebell flames and began quickly chopping newt-teeth root.

There was a thud against her sliding glass door. Hermione, wide-eyed, jumped up and yanked it open, firing off a stunner at the moving shape just as she realized what it was, letting out a, "No!"

It was a starling. The little dark-feathered bird had built a nest on her balcony, and she'd been watching its mate, waiting for a sign of eggs, and...

She watched the dark scrap flutter towards the ground in the fading sunlight, unable to move to stop its descent. A little sob escaped her lips.

"_Arresto momentum!"_

She nearly whirled around to curse the new voice, but it was only Harry. The little starling slowly began to float up towards them while Hermione gripped the rail, eyes wide and still not moving. Harry finally reached out and gently grasped it, laying it on the edge of the large nest. "It's okay, Hermione, it's still breathing, you didn't hurt it. Come on." Harry gripped her shoulder, leading her inside. She followed shakily.

"You haven't seen your therapist recently, have you?" said Harry. It was more of a statement than a question, Harry always knew the answer.

She shook her head anyway, sitting on the couch with her head in her hands. "I was working and he ran into the balcony door..."

"So you panicked."

"Yeah..."

There was a sound of liquid being shaken. "Hermione. What's this?"

She peeked through her hands. "Sleep-Less, Harry. I-"

"You promised to go without it for a month-this WEEK, in fact. It's only Wednesday."

"I-I have a lot of work to do, and I didn't think that a little would-" She took a deep breath. "I swear it was only a little! I-It was more than the dosage, but it was only a little!"

He looked disappointed, fingers wrapping around the little vial. His eyes were a dark green in the light, heavy with sorrow. Harry kept himself sane by keeping his friends sane, his eyes were always dark-lit like an old man who had seen nothing but death for fifty years, and Hermione could never meet them for long.

"Hermione. I really think you should see someone about this." Harry sat on the coffee table in front of her, hand on her shoulder. "It's not-"

"I don't need a speech, Harry! I know the dangers, I know, I know everything! I'm fine!"

That frown was still in place, deepening. Harry never smiled. "Do you want some help with your case? Corralling Malfoy is a big task."

She opened her mouth to tell him no, but instead decided to give a little. "Sure."

"Great. I'll go find Vane and get a list of his most frequented hang-outs."

"I've got a meeting with Zabini in a week, so I'll go to Nott's in a few days."

"Oh, and Scamander was looking for you today, so make sure you come in tomorrow, he was anxious." Harry scribbled a few notes on parchment, tearing the piece in half. "I'll be telling the dispensary you're only allowed half the vial count of everyone else this month, Hermione."

She could have complained, but he looked at her a moment and it was more than enough of a lecture. She sighed as he flooed away.

He'd taken the vial of Sleep-Less with him.

* * *

So, addictions, blood, Azkaban, singing...

Comments? Questions? Predictions?


	4. Chapter 4

Welcome to yet another chapter. Sorry this took forever, I went to camp for two weeks.

Also, school starts on the fifth for me, so updates may slow then. Or it could be like NaNo and I'll write like crazy. We'll see.

Abbily has not come back to me, but Couture did. Also, Milly the house-elf is her lovely creation and you all should worship her for letting me use her, and for letting me base my Theodore on her own.

YOu might also notice a lack of Draco. I couldn't think of anything new for him to do XD

* * *

Harry had been right, Scamander had needed to talk to her, but what everyone tended to forget was that Scamander was deathly shy about talking to most women. She had come in for two days straight. She worked Saturdays, so it was now day three, lunch break, and now Scamander was finally approaching her.

He was wringing his hands, shuffling his feet, cheeks permanently pink. "I-I-I-I need to talk to you," he whispered to the carpet. Hermione scanned her eyes over him, searching for a weapon, but his wand was hanging from his side and there was nothing else. She cleared files off a stool. "Take a seat."

"Um-Thank... You, I think I'll stand," he said in a rush. Hermione nodded and set the files back on the stool, reaching over to stir a potion (three times, clockwise).

"Might as well get it over with, Scamander, before you pass out on my lab floor."

He nodded, swallowed several times with several more deep breaths. "Luna's missing, she hasn't written home in over a week, I'm worried."

Luna was the only female Scamander wasn't shy around, the only one who didn't make him into a blushing schoolboy, and the two were also sharing a flat (Albite with two bedrooms, but everyone assumed they were dating. How could it be anything else?)

"Why are you telling me, exactly?"

"B-Because you're smart and you're good at finding people and if she's just caught up in visiting phoenixes I don't want to panic everybody, she won't like that."

"So you want me to find your girlfriend," she stated flatly.

Instantly, his blush lessened. "We're not dating and we're not going to, I'm three years older than her! How many times do I have to say it! We're sharing because of rent-"

"And meshing interests, I know. I still don't believe it."

"You don't believe a lot of things," Scamander snapped, which seemed to drain quite a lot of his bravery, but he didn't correct his statement.

"I'm... Sorry?" Hermione said, blinking.

Was this really Scamander? She ran a fingertip over the carved handle of her wand.

"You don't believe it's really your coworkers back from lunch-you vet all of them first, you don't believe everything's not poisoned, you check it before even picking it up, you think everyone's an enemy in disguise you don't believe anything, you're controlled by paranoia!"

All the color drained from his face, he tossed some files on the lab table and fled.

She checked the files for spells, quickly, rolling her eyes at what he said. She was paranoid, but she wasn't controlled by it.

Was she?

Scamander, at least, was thorough. There was information on where she went-why _Germany-_hotels and other places she could have stayed at, what she would be doing, her latest health records listing her height, weight, hair and eye color, a map of the area she had said she was going to, and not a hint of why Scamander was so worried. Luna wandered to places all the time without telling people, why was he scared now?

She shoved the files in her bag and finished her lunch, quickly devouring her sandwich. Packing up, she sighed as she looked around the wreck of the lab, wishing she could have stayed to organize it, but her boss had informed her an hour ago that he couldn't afford to pay her overtime for the next week, and that she really needed to go home as soon as possible. She left a new stack of notes for the lab crew and put the potion on to cool with the strands of mane and hoof clippings. They'd be ready by Monday.

Then she went home to wreck her flat.

. . .

The floor was covered in newspaper clippings, the table in articles and photos were taped in columns on the wall. It looked like a stalker-shrine to Draco Malfoy and Luna Lovegood.

Hermione was searching for any possible connection. So far, there was nothing, but she was developing a theory connecting the headache behind her eyes and all the paper she had been staring blankly at for the last several hours.

She groaned and slammed her head on the table, forehead crinkling against an article about one of Luna's animal discoveries. She was getting nowhere, there was no connection, but she would have to look for one anyway. Stupid paperwork... Hermione pulled her head up a little and peeled the article off her skin.

She was tempted to go visit Neville, investigate how his gardens and teacher-training were going, but a bolt of overwhelming tiredness slid over her. She blearily stared at the clock-ten. It was ten, apparently. She yawned, feeling like her jaw would crack, and stumbled over the clipping-covered carpet to the couch, sweeping it clear with a lethargic wave of her wand.

She was asleep in an instant,

_Her eyes opening to the sight of the ceiling of the Drawing Room. It looked blue in the light, fine cracks on the surface. The cracks moved, convoluted into a strange shape, becoming the face of Bellatrix Lestrange._

_Hermione shrieked, sobbing, but her limbs were tied so tightly to the floor, stiff..._

_She was laughing, laughing loud, a twisted sound of delight._

"_So, little mudblood..." Her voice was silky until the last syllable, where it cracked in more insane laughter._

_Hermione shrieked again, a name this time. Bellatrix's face hadn't moved from the ceiling, but it spread, more cracks becoming her hair. Harry stepped over her, Ron, Neville, Lavender, Luna, Ginny, so many people gathering around her._

"_It's your fault they recognized us," Harry said. "Remember? 'Look, it's the mudblood from the paper.'" His voice, calm, venomous. It ripped at her, pain in her chest._

_Then they pulled out their wands._

_She screamed now, pain wracking her body, as a decorative column became Bellatrix's arm, the word "Crucio!" ringing in the air._

_The cracks solidified, and the chandelier swung before it came crashing down on her-_

Hermione woke up screaming with the dawn.

Gasping in air, she looked around wildly, searching for something, anything-a friend, an enemy, something.

Nothing but paper and drips of sunlight oozing into the room.

She scrambled off the couch, hurriedly straightening her clothes, shaky hands grasping her wand. She needed to keep busy, she couldn't sleep, she couldn't...

Harry's voice had been so calm, like he thought about all the time, something he'd come to terms with how to handle...

"I think I'll interview Nott," she said out loud, stuffing recording devices in her purse. "Yes, that will do." She picked up her brush from the table, raking it through her curls before making a messy bun of it, stacking all the articles and newspaper clippings by hand, ripping the photos off the wall and setting them in a pile.

She missed Crookshanks.

She missed tripping over his food bowl early in the morning and his warm weight on her legs as she slept, how he'd lick her face gently after a nightmare.

Hermione shuddered slightly, emotions stirring up inside as she measured out the coffee grounds, watching the liquid percolate before pouring it all into a travel mug, with a second one of water. The fridge held nothing but some old takeout, the cupboards had only a few cans.

She would eat after, she assured herself-silently, this time.

She busied herself again, organizing books and sorting the articles by publication date and title, wiping down the counter with the remains of a well-loved shirt, glancing at the ticking clock.

When she finally deemed it late enough that he wouldn't panic about arrest, she gathered her purse and magically smoothed a few wrinkles in her clothes, turning into an apparation.

As a high-ranking auror, (Though she wasn't quite sure how she had earned the position) she had direct apparating access to the Nott Family Manor. Most of said high-ranking aurors forgot about the place entirely.

It had once been beautiful, Hermione could tell, and she stared. The high windows, delicate carvings everywhere in the stone, the so many stories-it was like a small castle from a fairy tale.

If that fairy tale had been abandoned. The garden around her was overgrown, choked with weeds and decay, grass beneath her feet over what had once been a gravel walkway. The manor was in disrepair, cracked and shattered stone and a broken window in sight, like it had been forgotten for a hundred years.

Hermione ruefully wondered if she had to play Sleeping Beauty's prince, a strange smile on her lips as she walked quickly up the once-path to a door. She knocked once and it opened as she began to swing again.

The house-elf was small and old and its violet eyes quickly schooled themselves in a scowl, bat-like ears flattening against her head.

"Master bes doing nothing wrong! Miss will leaves now! How dares Miss blame Master Theo! Master Theo's nots left Master's room in a long time! Aurors break Master!"

Hermione, the entire time, tried to get a word in edgewise, and tried to use this pause, but-

"And Milly nots want to be free! How dare Miss!"

The door nearly slammed.

Hermione distinctly felt like she was arguing with a grouchy old neighbor, wondering if next she'd be yelled at for throwing a rock at the broken window and how her mother had better pay.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her shoulders back, knocking again.

"I'm not here to arrest! Nott's not in trouble!" She ignored how awkwardly that sentence fell off her tongue.

The door opened. "And he's keeping nothing illegal! Miss nots searching Master's home again!"

"I'm here for his _help_, you crotchety old elf!"

Milly gave her the evil eye.

"Miss insult Milly. Why shouls Milly trust Miss?"

She opened her mouth to snap a line about being an auror and then shut it.

"I need to learn about Draco Malfoy. I swear on my wand, no harm will come to Nott, I will not insult him or use anything here against him."

Milly tapped her foot.

"And I won't even mention freeing elves, there, you happy?"

Milly grudgingly opened the door, letting her into a hall, heavily shadowed. The curtains were drawn over all the windows, from the vaulting ceilings to the carpeted floor.

The air was musty, heavy with silence, and though clean, heartbreak was soaked in and the shards of a broken soul lay everywhere.

Milly led her down the hall, into another, up a staircase to a door where Milly made her wait a little further down the hall.

A few charms and Hermione peered into the room.

Nott was sitting on the floor, head resting on the seat of an armchair. There was a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, and his face turned towards the ceiling-though whether he saw it was debatable.

The room was a bedroom, and the entire place was in disarray-the pillows weren't even on the bed, blankets half-draped over the hearth and carpet, clothing scattered everywhere amidst photos and paintings and shattered crystal and china.

Yet, oddly, it didn't feel like a drunkard's room-until she noticed Milly was vanishing some empty bottles and ends of cigars, the full ashtray emptying with a flick of a finger as she began to sort and fold shirts.

Almost all of the clothing was black, she noticed.

"Up now, Master has a visitor, the sun has risen and older Master is locked away! Master Theodore is safe."

What an odd thing to say.

Nott groaned, a hungover sound, and he peeled his head off the chair.

"Up, Master! Milly cares nots if yous head aches! Master has a visitor! Up! Changing time!" She held up a black dress shirt identical to the one he was wearing. He began to unbutton with fumbling hands. Hermione politely looked away.

"Nows the potion, yous help the hangover!"

Hangover potions only dulled the effects, but anything more and it started damaging the liver instead of healing it.

"What am I doing?" he finally asked.

"Miss Granger bes here! She needs yous help!"

"Tell her to go fuck herself up the arse with her wand."

"No! Miss Granger has promised Master Theo's safety! She promise on her wand!"

"Fine, I'll listen to Her Majesty. I hope this is worth it."

She quickly dropped the charms, stepping back into her original position. Hermione put on her best bored expression as Milly opened the door farther to let her on.

Nott was sitting in the chair, instead of against it, green eyes dead, a cigarette lit. He wasn't picky about how he killed his lungs, apparently.

"What's this about, Granger? You've disturbed some lovely drinking time."

She sat down carefully in the offered chair. "I need information on Draco Malfoy. He's been missing from home for almost a year. Since Slytherins have six different personalities with the same name, I decided that talking to some of his peers would help me understand where he might be hiding. The sooner we're done, the sooner you can drink yourself into a bed in St. Mungo's Hospice Ward." She set up her recording devices with ease.

He took a drag, waiting for her to finish. His other hand twitched around a shotglass. Hermione set the dictating quill to work.

"Stupid. Draco was stupid."

"Yes, I know that, but could you perhaps elaborate?"

He chuckled. "He was stupid in the social sense. He started out all right, but somewhere along the way he got these stupid ideas and he tripped over his arrogance every time he walked. He started to learn a little too late. Know what a mess he was in sixth year?"

"No, and I don't care. My job is to find him, not host a pity party."

Nott rolled his eyes and took another drag. The scent of the smoke was now heavy in the air. She held back a cough and breathed lightly.

"He liked attention and people, maybe it was some sort of drug for him, a distraction or reward. He was always bragging or complaining or pulling a stunt or telling a story. He called you Princess-"

"Master! We nots use that word!"

Nott looked slightly embarrassed at being chided by his elf in front of a practical stranger. Or possibly just embarrassed.

"He usually shortened it to Princess."

"Uh huh. On topic."

"That is on topic, _Princess._ He nicknamed people, he interchanged last and first names, insults were the new nickname. It's a wonder he even remembered Potter's real name."

Hermione set her head in her hand. "You talk to walls to hear your own voice, don't you?"

"I'm not narcissistic, Granger. Please, ask more questions."

"Did you know he took up drinking too? Was he a drinker before Azkaban?"

He stared at her a moment, those flat eyes broody. A single eyebrow slowly raised.

"Are we talking about the same person? Draco didn't drink, he volunteered to be lookout after the first few experiences. Prick couldn't hold his firewhiskey, I bet." He looked down at the half-empty bottle of firewhiskey on the floor. "Aren't you supposed to be paranoid?"

"Your home looks like the set of a haunted mansion, your room is wreck, you look like you haven't showered in a week, your elf has your wand and sobriety is very obviously not a frequent visitor here. I'd be surprised if you could stand, Nott."

Glaring was perhaps too much effort, as he gave her a stare only on the edges of angry.

There were scars on his neck, following down below onto his chest, one crawling all the way up to just below his ear-or behind. She noted it and wondered if that ear still worked.

He heaved himself up with effort, his legs unsteady. "I'm not weak, Granger."

A lie. She began to pack up. A useless fifteen minutes.

Then she paused and pulled out a photo of Luna.

"Have you seen this woman?" she asked Milly. "Luna likes to wander when she visits places, and her flatmate is wondering why she's not written in a week."

Milly shook her head. "Milly seens no one. Master?"

Nott stared at the photo, Luna smiled serenely back. "She's lost?"

"Possibly. It's also possible she's just so caught up in learning the ways of-I think she called them Schrat-"

"The moss-people? That's just a collection of myths, faeries running around the woods and escaping the Wild Hunt by merging with trees."

"Well no wonder she's looking, Luna confirms faery tales. She proved the existence of nargles."

"Milly will tells crazy witch to owl if Milly sees her. Miss Granger will leave." She folded the last shirt. "Miss Granger will leave the photo, Milly's memory not whats it used to be."

The photo was taken and Milly, quite strong for her age, began pushing and pulling her down the halls and stairs. Hermione found herself at the door to the grounds before she was quite aware what was happening.

"Bye now, Miss, be nots disturbing Master again soon."

The door slammed.

Hermione blinked and apparated to go check with some hotels, a little confused.

* * *

Geez, Theo and Hermione acted a bit like brother and sister XD* I look forward to writing more of his elf, though.

*This is not a plot device. Calm thy epileptic trees.


	5. Chapter 5

So wow this chapter is actually out pretty fast!

Anyway, I got a bit of writer's block, and ended up switching to a new POV for the second half of the chapter, so yay, exploration in new perspectives!

* * *

"Hey, Hermione. You busy?"

She whipped around in shock, chair clattering behind her, wand tight in her hand and a curse halfway past her throat.

It was Ron.

"Y-You startled me," she said, setting her chair up again.

He shrugged, taking another seat for himself without asking, clattering limply into it like he was part ragdoll.

This was one of those times when she was surprised how much energy had left him. Ron was a person who crackled with energy, life, strong emotions. Now, he was listless, eyes always heavy with sorrow and a bit distant, like they were seeing somewhere near the horizon.

She had tried to love him, told herself that Ron and her were meant to be, even while she grew so paranoid she'd wake up from her nightmares he couldn't fix and think he was a stranger, while he dug his grip into the past that had held so much more than the present-his brother, Hogwarts, times when being the Best Friend of Harry Potter was a distinction and not a forgotten sidekick position.

She had broken it off six months ago. She forgot when she did so that while she was struggling to love him, Ron had deeply loved her.

Her throat felt thick for a moment as she looked at another clipping and pushed another pin into the place on the map marking Wicked. While waiting the time until the meeting with Zabini, she was currently trying to find out the locations Draco was most likely to be on a given night.

"I was wondering-"

"I'm busy, Ron, sorry," she said, as his voice dwindled.

"...lunch..." he sighed. "'Mione..."

"I am _busy!_ I've got to find a missing Malfoy so the Ministry can afford to rebuild Hogwarts and pay us at the same time! I don't have time to eat, or-or date, or-and I've said before, we're just not compatible!" She fiercely shoved another pin in the board, listening to Ron hesitantly walk off, then shook slightly, trying to shove away her frustration and hurt and self-directed anger.

She needed to work, after all.

She scrounged through the articles, pins in place, searching for any more clubs she could have missed, then quickly shoved it all aside, looking at the results of the root-cause test.

The sores, the manes, the disintegrating hooves all had one source, with a scattering of other illnesses, a strange bacteria, mutated or made by magic. Hermione groaned.

She hated those. New diseases were a pain to create vaccines for, and needed a name and to be studied in labs and mutated ones had to be renamed and catalogued and evidence on why it was not just some fluke and was actually a new disease and either way it was too much paperwork to just cure one damn illness.

Looking around the lab, she spotted no one else, no people standing in corners or working, but quickly cast out a charm to check. No one. The lab was as empty as it sounded. She began to write notes. Her handwriting was messy today, halfway unreadable, loops and dents only she knew made the letters they only barely represented. She needed more sleep, or more caffeine, and she knew which one she wasn't getting, but unfortunately as a sterile environment, it lacked a coffee-maker.

Hermione decided to complete her work in a coffee shop. Muggles made good coffee, and she didn't trust the coffeepot in the break room. In that respect, Hermione was not alone. According to Kingsley, the machine hadn't really been more than lightly rinsed in eight years.

Some days, she swore there was something swimming in it.

. . . .

Blaise believed in impressions. A good first impression meant a second impression with more room to breathe, and a good second impression was being well on its way to being invited to dinners and earning favors.

So Blaise, before his meeting with Auror Granger, decided to get a cup of muggle coffee. He doubted he would drink any of it, he wasn't so desperate as to actually want anything so cheap as to be sold to a coffee shop, but perhaps the logo would convince her that he doing well with muggle relations, and that whatever this meeting was about was not his fault.

He dearly wished his young secretary had remembered to ask. He'd only had her for a few weeks, and she was a hard worker and good with people, but often forgot these little important details.

Blaise only barely had the presence of mind to keep moving when he entered the shop. Apparently, Granger had felt the need to come all the way out to Plymouth, to get coffee, _here._

Fuck.

Now he'd actually have to drink it.

Blaise hated coffee. He didn't like the taste, the smell, the texture, the nothing, but it was expected of someone running a company to drink it, so Blaise did so on occasion at key times.

Of course, it was also expected that he be having affairs with his secretary behind his girlfriend's back, but Blaise wasn't going to delve that far into clichés. His old secretary had been thirty years his senior and in fact his childhood nanny, and dear little Emily was just that-dear. She was more a pet than affair material. Besides, there was no way Blaise would ever hurt Gabrielle that way, Azkaban had-Blaise shook his head heavily before he thought of that looming prison, and stepped up to the register to break cliché. Fuck it, he was getting tea. The paranoid bint could take his first impression as it was. An overworked man holding a company up by a rusty chain and drinking tea with absolutely nothing added, not thrilled to have this conversation.

He sat in the booth, watching her work for a moment. He looked at her notes upside-down, deciphering the messy script.

"So Hogwarts is only half-standing and we're wasting money on a few ill centaurs. I'm pleased to know the Ministry thinks so highly of the oldest magical school in western Europe."

Her head snapped up, breathing fluttering and her eyes wide, hand on her wand. In front of all these muggles. She was paranoid.

"If we might start the meeting early and get it over with, Granger, I think we will all be much happier for the day."

"Not here," she said, voice tainted by fear. "Too many muggles." She quickly threw all her work into a cloth bag, standing up. She was frazzled. When her back was turned, Blaise allowed himself one quick smirk.

She led out to a park near one of the universities, settling down on a picnic bench before laying out a variety of recording tools, all disguised as small objects as she did so. That was fast and fancy work, illusion spells took lots of concentration and finesse.

Blaise snorted and looked unimpressed. Sitting down gracefully, he sipped at his tea and waited. He would not be the one to ask her to get around to it.

"Eleven and a half months ago, Draco Malfoy went missing from his home." She spoke calm, in clipped tones and short words, professional. "Despite appearing in a weekly column denoting the varying humorous effects of a stalker-reporter watching a man drink himself to death, his mother has been unable to contact him, his residence is unknown to all, and she wishes to bring him home before he dies of alcohol poisoning. I got the short straw and have to be the one to find him. To do so, I am seeking information from his peers to hopefully understand a bit of how his mind works. So. Just tell me about Draco."

Draco- constellation, dragon, Latin. Tall blond grey eyes idiot friend, brave fool. Broken glass.

Blaise's thoughts became briefly jumbled, short descriptive words attaching themselves to the name like a poetic definition. A memory of Azkaban danced in. He saw them leading out Draco, they were in the same cellblock, he remembered the lifting of the Dementors' energy and cold as Draco passed, stumbling, arm bleeding, red on his neck, laughing. He clutched a long shard of something in hand and the guards were treating him like he might explode any second and take down the building with him.

The other time, sickness swept through, Blaise remembered being taken out himself, coughing up so much blood it dribbled over his chin and onto a uniform he'd suddenly realized was so stained and ripped, and even now Blaise couldn't remember where he'd gotten those scars and tattoos on his chest.

He'd been chained to Theodore, and chained to Rodolphus, and Draco had been so ill, one of the first victims he couldn't even walk-the guards dragged him.

When he came out of quarantine, Draco hadn't come with them and his last thoughts before the Dementors stripped them away again was cursing Draco, jealous that Death would take that blond prick and not him.

Blaise suddenly realized that he'd been staring at Granger with a catatonic expression for a few seconds, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"I grew up with him, my mother often married men who were invitees of Malfoy events. So was Theodore, but I doubt he'd tell you that, he doesn't like remembering his childhood. Draco was spoiled, for being a Malfoy, being a pureblood, for being a wizard and for being a future soldier of the Dark Lord, his father was quite sure of the last one."

She obviously wanted him to just get on with it, so Blaise dragged the story out in other directions.

"He trained him. All our fathers trained us-at least till mine died in an unfortunate and coincidental series of events, then my mother married another Death Eater and it was right back to it. Between us, we have enough mental scars to keep a mental healer in business for fifty years. I'm sure you'd love to see that, Granger, another person more messed up than you so you can claim you're normal."

"I need Draco's life-story, not yours," she said, shaking her styrofoam coffee cup. There was a light sloshing sound.

"So Draco's messed up, thanks to his dear father, but spoiled, so he's always been a bit confused, messed up in the head. He thinks weird, but he remembers a lot, and he's always been a bit of a girl magnet, hard as it may be for you believe, your celibateness. We all know you didn't date Weasel for the good sex-lif-" he leaned back as she threw herself forward, growling out curses. He put up a light shield, invisible, and watched them dissipate. "Now, Granger, you're breaking the Statute. Do you want to Obliviate all these children?"

She put her wand away.

"Draco was friends with Fleur Delacour, did you know? He made all the boys in Slytherin jealous that year. Sounds like something he'd brag about, right? Well, he did at first, but it stopped soon enough." He frowned, and found himself saying, "Slytherins hold masks and fronts all their lives. I've been friends with Draco since we were in diapers and yet I know more about his opinion on you than I do about him himself. There's only a few select people we'll ever open up to. If you want to know about Draco, go talk to the part-beast."

"Veelas are humans with inborn magical animal-like abilities, not beasts, Mr. Zabini." Granger gathered up her things quickly. "Not that I could expect you to understand. How many Slytherins can see past their own noses with all the masks they put on?"

She walked away quickly, eyes constantly shifting around, before she pulled out her wand and apparated.

"Farther than you'd think, Granger. I want to know what you're really up to." He turned on his heel, apparating into a grand room with the magical windows displaying what it would look like if he were currently thirty stories up instead of three-most of the company building was underground, like most wizard buildings.

Gabrielle, a bit tiredly, looked up from reading a newly delivered contract. "How went the meeting? Should I hire a lawyer?"

"Let's go somewhere tonight, Gab. How does Wicked sound?"

Narcissa could find anyone when she applied herself. There was no way she couldn't find her son. He had to warn Draco that the aurors were planning something.

And besides, he hadn't taken Gab anywhere in months.

* * *

For anyone who's wondering, Gabrielle is not Fleur's sister Gab, she's an OC. Rest assured that Blaise is not dating someone half his age.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, so I actually had this written about a day after I put up the last chapter, but I decided to make you guys wait :3

Spoiler, this chapter contains an excess of cute. Yay, toddlers!

* * *

One day, in 1994, a part-Veela named Fleur Delacour talked to a blond boy who had no friends, only lackeys and acquaintances. He was never sure why she did, she singled him out, made his dorm jealous while he desperately tried to figure out why they all found her so attractive. True, she was pretty, and there wasn't a flaw in sight, but there was none of the pull everyone described. He never felt like suddenly bragging or asking her anywhere or praising her every step.

It was confusing.

Fleur told him about Veelas.

And the way she told him always interested him, saying 'we', not 'I', as if inviting Draco to something he never would have been a part of, the Veela world. Draco had never been invited into anything because he was already a part of it or his father considered it beneath them.

"_We are beautiful, the pinnacle of human beauty, and though some might try to demean us by calling us beasts and half-humans, we know better. We always will."_

And she had spoken to him, he was among these people who rested at the highest point of beauty, he was one they were trying to demean, but she spoke with such elegant pride, the French she spoke in just adding to the air, he knew that she really did know better.

And he wished that he was, that he could hold a room's attention with _himself_, not with family name or riches, not bragging, he wanted to be heard some days when he felt like he was speaking nonsense to a sea of empty nods.

"_We are three-the eldest, they are almost gone now, beautiful women who can become animal shapes-wolves, swans, snakes and horses, they were warrior witches. The middle kind, everywhere, the ones usually called Veela, with scaled wings and harpy screeches, and then... There is us. The youngest, a bit of cross, we are feather winged and wolf-teethed, fast as the wind and silent."_

Draco, a boy who had been raised on a broom and silent wishes for wings in his youth became addicted to the idea that a person could have real ones, real working ones, feathers fluttering. Fleur didn't help, showing him her wings. They were white, folding snugly against her skin from the curve of her shoulder to the small of her back, and when the three sections unfolded created a thirteen-foot wingspan.

Only then did Draco understand why people chased her so.

Who wouldn't want an angel?

Draco drew in a deep breath, listening to the sound shudder in his throat, as he realized he was crying a little. He wasn't even sure why, but the memories made him sad. He stared down at the firewhiskey in his hand and then tossed it back, leaning more heavily on Wicked's bar as he signaled for another. There was a small stack of empty shotglasses next to him, and the wizard had just started watering the whiskey with a frown, Draco could taste how thin it was, but was going to drink until the memories ended and the tears stopped. It would just take a little longer tonight.

He could hear someone calling his name, their voice familiar, and he dried the tears from his eyes and turned.

Blaise clapped him on the back in what looked friendly and was actually steadying. "Draco! You old prick, how are you!"

Draco grinned back. Why had he been sad anyway? "Perfect! Perfect... Zabini, I'm great!" He gave a charming grin to the girl to Blaise's right, who looked a little stunned.

"Damn, mate, you're planning some hangover here, need someone to take you home?"

"Nah, just drink right through it, find some little bird... I'll be fine!"

He fell off the barstool-possibly. He went from staring at Blaise's face to the ceiling, head hurting, but a different way from a hangover. He laughed and began to stagger up, Blaise helping him stay standing. He leaned in.

"Sorry, but I'm not-"

Blaise slapped him.

"Listen to me!" Blaise hissed. Draco clutched at the side of his face. Slap was being kind... It was like an open-fisted punch... "Get out of here, go home! Auror Granger's out, spewing some bullshit about how your mother hired her to find you! She's talking to us, trying to find out about you to understand your movements, and I'm not an Occlumence! If she pulled out Veritaserum, who knows what she could have made me tell her! Draco-Draco, would you put down the damn drink, you're worse than Theo!"

Draco sipped from the shotglass, tasting the drink for once.

"Mother can't find me, Blaise. I know how she finds people, so I planned against those. She's having to be careful not to do anything illegal, so I have a little extra security. If she's sunk to hiring Princess C-" the bartender wandered past his spot in the bar, "-she must be worried. It's nice to know Mother's worried."

Blaise stared at him, a very level stare. "Alright. Have fun dying." He ordered something from the bartender and slammed it down in front of him. "Have one for me."

His back screeched pain, like there was something under the skin, and Draco picked up the drink, emptying it in less than two seconds.

"_Did it hurt, when you got wings?"_

"_Yes, quite a lot. But it is worth it."_

He drank everything back into oblivion, and his last thought was that he didn't want to come back out.

. . .

Hermione wasn't sure she could do this. She paced in front of the fire, floo powder in her hand, rehearsing. "Tell me what you-too accusing. I heard you-no... Draco Malfoy-Bill will kill me!" She sighed and sat down on the carpet. "And she'll help. What am I doing? There's no way Fleur would go near Malfoy! She's one of us!"

Of course, the French definitely seemed different. Pansy and her husband, after all, with his little cheap insults for friendly banter.

She stood up, pacing again. "Okay. We'll go, we'll have some tea. I'll rant about this case. We'll see how she reacts. Good? Good. Let's go." She squared her shoulders, pulled out her wand and held it flat against her leg, and climbed into the fireplace. "Shell Cottage!" she tossed it at her feet. Bill and Fleur had given her an anytime invitation to come by. They were worried, constantly, about her paranoia.

She let her frustration take over as she climbed out, eyes darting all over as she entered the room. Fleur, heavily pregnant, was brushing her hair. "Es, Nev-eel?"

"Well, the roses need a lot of pruning, it looks like no one's touched them in fifty years, and I discovered there were flower-bulbs being choked by salt grass and ivy, so if it's alright, I'm going to uproot most of your english ivy to give them space to breathe again. Hello, Hermione," Neville said, clippers over one shoulder and dirt streaking his face. He smiled. "Welcome to the gardening party!"

She nodded curtly, yanking off her shoes. Fleur didn't want dirt on her carpet, ever.

"Want to join us? Yanking ivy will be good for that stress."

"I think... I'll entertain... Fleur-agh! Damn shoelaces!" She finally pulled her first shoe off as Neville set a teapot on the table. He sat next to her, untying the laces with ease.

"You shouldn't let your frustrations take control of you like this, it's not good for you. Doctor Neville subscribes a prescription of visiting Teddy when you're done here, and you will go, do you hear me, young lady?" Neville said this with a joking grin.

Neville was the one of the only people who had come out of the war in a good way.

He was a really good gardener.

"Yes, Doctor Neville..." she chimed back, edges of her frustrations melting away. She stood up and walked to the chair across from Fleur, where she could see her.

"Hermione," Neville said in a warning voice. "You will also not be suspicious of a pregnant woman! Sit by her, go, go," Neville shooed her onto the couch, then hefted his clippers and walked outside through the porch doors.

"What brings 'ou here?" Fleur asked, struggling to get the brush through her hair. Hermione, taking pity, took the brush and started at the ends. She had to keep from ripping through the knots. Fleur's hair looked perfect, but was extremely tangled.

"Work's... Just so... It's so aggravating! Why would anyone-The centaur herds have some new disease, so it has to be named and registered and studied before they let us start on a cure and meanwhile there are foals dying and what are they worried about? Could this possibly transfer to humans? Well the more we work with it to study it, the more likely that is to happen and they don't care that humans that just happen to have a different lower body than us are dying an-an-and I'm stuck having to find Draco fucking MALFOY!" She hurled the brush across the room.

"Malfoy ees missing?" Fleur stood up with a groan and waddled across the room, crouching to collect her brush. "But 'e's in the papers! I knew 'im, 'e was not too bad as a boy." She sat down on the couch with a huff. Hermione began to brush her hair again.

"His mother can't contact him, no one knows where he's living and at the rate he drinks he'll be dead in less than a year. She hired us to find him."

"Bribed?"

"Yeah, bribed. But we can rebuild Hogwarts with that money! So many children can... Come home... It was my home... It was everyone's home, and I'd live on the streets and never get paid if it meant it got rebuilt, but this way we don't have to shorten paychecks to give those children a safe space... We've had to leave muggleborns uncollected, their magic manifesting, for two years, those children could hurt themselves or others and don't understand what's wrong with them... And other children had to stay home, getting an owl-mail course, Hogwarts was only open one year after the war, to older students who wouldn't crawl into dangerous areas. Sixth and seventh and eighth... Hogwarts is like a graveyard without children..." She let out a slow, pained breath, tears like needles against the back of her eyes. "Please... If you know anything..."

Fleur rubbed her body-Victoire had kicked again, by her expression. "'E was only a little for-" She stopped, considered something, and switched to French. Hermione only set up her voice recorder. _"He was only a little fourth-year, like all of you. I didn't even know his name at first. I just knew that somewhere in his family, there had been a Veela-he wasn't affected by me._

"_It was a nice change from the usual, people hanging off me because of my blood. I enjoy company, but like to know that sometimes someone is there just because._

"_He was a kind boy, rather innocent despite his name and background, he hadn't really understood the first war or the point of it, or realize the meaning of all the things he said to others. He was a good listener, and not too bad a conversationalist. He wasn't ready to question his upbringing, but anything else could be something he would throw himself into, trying to understand._

"_He was a hawk to magic, instinctually knowing just how and what, sometimes crudely fashioned but his spells always came through. He was gentle with his pets, kind in how he tamed them, he was good with birds._

"_Draco was a good child."_

Hermione stared at her, trying to line up just how gently Fleur spoke of Malfoy with the person she had known.

She shook her head slightly, dispelling that. She couldn't just think of that mask. She knew about five Malfoys now. The one she saw, the one Parkinson loved, the one Nott remembered, the one Zabini grew up with, and the one Fleur knew.

"Thank you."

She smiled slightly, gesturing for the brush. Hermione finished one last stroke and gave it back.

"Geve my love to 'Eddy!"

"I will. Bye, Neville!" she called.

She flooed away. Keeping her elbows in, she banged around a little before entering the wider fireplaces of Andromeda's home.

Teddy was attempting to explore the fireplace today. Looking down at her feet, Hermione smiled and picked up the today-redheaded child, placing him on one shoulder. "Fleur and Victoire send their love, Teddy!"

He sneezed, hair turning pink. Hermione made a face. "But not for your sneezes." She conjured a tissue and wiped his nose.

"Love Flew!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, sitting in an armchair. An exhausted-looking Andromeda, grey hair fallen from its prim bun, bustled in. "Oh, there he is. Hello, Hermione."

"Hey, Mrs. Tonks. Neville told me I should visit, so here I am."

"That's lovely, I'll get the kettle put on," she said in a voice that sounded like it was going to take a nap without her. "Teddy only just got over his most recent cold, I haven't slept much. I nee-"

"I could take him for the day!"

"No, that's okay, you don't-" she sounded a bit panicked at the idea.

"I'll keep my wand away, I don't have dangerous objects, I'll give him some old magazines and crayons and let him color on peoples' faces. You'll love that, right, Teddy?"

"Love Melly!"

Teddy had mangled her name into Melly from the moment he could first speak it. Since he'd most often heard her called 'Mione, and he had trouble with the letter n, her name had been Miole for all of once before he decided to call her Melly.

Teddy was the only person who could.

"Yes, and Melly thinks Gran Andromeda is tired. Wanna come home with Melly, Teddy?"

"Go with Melly! Gran-gran, wanna go with Melly!"

"Keep both eyes on him, everything sharp or important behind a double-locked door, and don't let him on that balcony!" Andromeda instructed, and thrust her babysitter bag at Hermione. Inside would be two changes of clothes, a spare set of Teddy's favorite coloring supplies, and his favorite snacks. She slung it over her shoulder, picking up Teddy. His weight naturally settled on her hip, and she checked with Andromeda before turning on her heel, apparating into her apartment.

"Let's play a game, Teddy!" She pulled out every picture of Malfoy she had. "We have to draw a mustache on every picture of this man!" She set out the markers. "On your mark, get set, color!"

Teddy was quite the artist.

* * *

Thus, petty revenge :) Also, adorable children, Neville the therapist and badass, and a new Hermione nickname! 'Mione is overused :P

Also, quick, someone give me a word or prompt or character for the next chapter: Guess who's got a slight writer's block? You will be thanked.


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